


Ordinary, Everyday Love

by tinyfierce



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyfierce/pseuds/tinyfierce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Arishawke drabbles. Some set during the events of the Arrowhead, others in a more modern AU, anything goes! Largely a result of prompts from tumblr, and any mix of hilarious, heartwrenching, or sex-tastic, but all about Hawke's relationship with the painted giant. Rating M to cover my bases for whatever may go here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Movie Night

Hey, folks!

So, welcome to my collection of drabbles! If you'd like to offer a prompt, I'd hugely prefer it if you popped over to [tumblr](http://tinyfierce.tumblr.com) to do so! Anything is welcome - and I'm excited to finally have time to flex my 'sprinting muscles,' as it were, and get into some short bits that have been digging around into my head for ages.

That out of the way, enjoy. =) **  
**

* * *

**Anonymous asked:** "More of the modern AU?" **  
**

* * *

" _Tea_ and _a cheese platter_?" Hawke stared down at the ludicrously expensive Moser coffee table, an artfully arranged sea of orange, white, and gold proudly staring up at her from the polished surface. " _That's_ what you came up with when I put you in charge of movie night snacks?"

"You disapprove of my choice," the Arishok rumbled from his seat on the sofa, casually crossing one leg over the other. He already held one steaming mug in hand, a custom-made self-warming kettle holding hours' more worth of what promised to be rooibos on the table.

"A hundred-dollar plate of cheeses I can't even recognize?" She threw up her hands, marching herself into the penthouse's immaculate kitchen. "We're watching a DVD on your couch, not opening an art gallery."

She heard the gentle _clack_ of her lover replacing the mug on the table, massive footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting. " _Our_ sofa," he corrected her, watching from the marble countertop as she rifled through the cabinets. "The agreed-upon arrangement stipulated that should the choice of film be yours, so should the choice of refreshment be. Yet you gave no further instructions than 'not from a bakery.'"

"Yes," Hawke called up from half-deep into a set of shelves, "otherwise we would've ended up with an enormous German Chocolate cake. _Again._ "At his displeased grumble, she smiled to herself. Left to his own devices, the Arishok would throw them both to the mercy of the diabetes gods. "I want microwave popcorn," she declared as she checked boxes. "A lot of it."

He snorted. "Greasy," he sneered, "and cheap."

" _Yes._ Cheap _,_ disgusting, and _glorious_." Triumphant, she emerged from the standing pantry with a gaudy blue box in hand. Ripping one package open, she tossed it into the microwave and set the timer. As it began to spin on the tray, she turned to the man of the house with satisfaction written broadly across her face. "You don't have to have any," she informed him, "but I _will_ be eating it on your sofa."

"'Our,'" he reminded her a second time, "as you seem to have difficulty recalling." His eyes followed her as she leaned back against the island to watch the waxy bag expand through the glowing window.

"I know." She stared at the popcorn for a few long moments, tapping her fingers, before turning to look at him. In a few short steps, she had crossed the kitchen to lean over the counter and cup his face in her hands, planting an affectionate kiss over his frown. "I know, all right?"

He made a noise in his throat, but said nothing.

* * *

 

Time found them settled among overstuffed cushions, reclining into the luxury of the fabric as an enormous explosion lit up the screen. The cheese platter sat re-covered and abandoned in favor of several ready-to-eat bags of molten salted oil and popped kernels, which were scattered and steaming up the table's immaculate polish.

Having emptied one bag's contents into a giant bowl, Hawke sat cross-legged, gleefully plucking at the buttery prize in her lap.

As a large copper-tinted hand reached over and took a handful, a grin completely unrelated to the movie wove across her face.

"Say _nothing,_ " he growled.

"Wasn't gonna."


	2. Lessons in Etiquette

**elaine-shepard asked:** "I cannot for the life of me think of a serious prompt, so have this: Hawke introduces the Arishok to her mother and explains their relationship."

Running with the idea of the prompt. I think that Leandra'd be smarter than anyone gives her credit for, really.

* * *

Leandra wasn't sure if she should drop her packages and scream or drop her packages and grab the nearest vase to smash over the enormous horned head of the qunari that was sitting in her favorite sofa.

His back was to her, seemingly blissfully unaware of her terrified presence. Brassy golden horn bands gleamed in the firelight, and he had stretched one arm out lazily across the richly upholstered back. Even if he did have fine taste in jewelry, he was a qunari. She'd heard the stories about them in the marketplace – never anything good! - and though they had patched up her daughter over the span of a few months, she'd almost rather that haggard-looking mage with all the feathers gotten it over with in one night. She might not have trusted the man, but even he would have been a sight better than what her daughter had ended up in.

She took a few cautious steps toward the heavy vase, and though the qunari lifted his head, he didn't turn or give any other inclination that he'd heard her. Slowly, she moved to put the parcels down on the table –

"Mother?"

At the sound of her daughter's voice, Leandra nearly jumped out of her skin, purchases tumbling to the floor. "Maker, girl," she scolded, frowning as she watched her armor-clad daughter scoop up the tied paper packages. "Do you need to be so quiet in your own home?"

Placing them neatly on the table, Hawke offered her mother a sheepish grin. "Force of habit?" When she was satisfied that they wouldn't go careening off the edge, she called to the room's other occupant. "Arishok."

He turned, then, and Leandra's breath caught in her throat. He was striking; though she'd seen a fair number of qunari, this one was different. Hawk-gold eyes watched her with interest for a moment before blessedly moving on to Mairead.

"I'll be right back," she promised, "the tea's nearly done steeping."

As he made an acknowledging noise in his throat, Hawke turned back to the hall, her mother hot at her heels.

" _Tea?_ " She followed Mairead into the kitchens, disbelief plainly written across her face. "That's the Arishok, isn't it – the leader of all the qunari in Kirkwall – and you're _serving him tea in my sitting room_?"

"Yes, yes, and yes," Hawke answered, calmly pulling the loose leaves from the teapot and setting it on a tray. Leandra noticed with a start that her savage daughter had somehow managed to make tea, a feat she'd never been able to achieve thus far in her life. Furthermore, she had found a tray and – miracle of miracles! - two matching cups, not just drinking whatever it was she pleased out of a bottle.

Although she hated to admit it, the sight had somewhat mollified Leandra's horror at discovering the most feared man in Kirkwall on her prized Orlesian sofa. Somewhat calmer, she lost herself in thought as she fetched the sugar bowl and tongs to add to the tray. "If he is a qunari," she began slowly, "isn't it dangerous for him to leave the docks?"

"He has his ways of not being seen," Hawke replied, pulling down saucers. Her hands hesitated, and a warm smile crossed her face as she set the cups. "When I asked him that same question, he said that my company is worth the risk." She smirked over her shoulder at her mother. "And he's very fond of that particular couch."

His good taste in finery, companionship, and décor plucked at Leandra, as did Mairead's obvious happiness at his visit. The fact that her daughter was _finally_ attempting to learn to entertain company in a civilized manner only served to endear the painted giant to her the slightest bit more.

Sighing in defeat, she opened the pantry and pulled out a wax paper bundle to unfold it, arranging the fruit-filled scones within prettily on a plate and shoving it in front of the would-be hostess. "For Maker's sake, _feed_ a guest," she chided. "If you're going to entertain, do it properly."

She watched Mairead bite back a smile. "Yes, mother."

Strolling back toward the parlor, Leandra smoothed her skirts. "And add a third cup. I want you to introduce me to your friend."

The resulting stunned silence was particularly satisfying.

_"What?!"_


	3. Sink or Swim

****Anonymous asked** ** ****:**** "Hey! Love the modern Arishawke drabble. Are you still looking for inspiration? What about Arishok throwing Hawke into the water like you referenced in SIFL?"  
  
(For reference, the chapter in question is [Chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/316829/chapters/509004) of 'Starkhaven is for Lovers,' my Sebastian story.)

* * *

" _You_ – !"

Hawke sputtered angrily, splashing and flailing her way over to a splintered, barnacle-ridden dock pole as the Arishok calmly watched from his place at the water's edge.

"I have given you opportunity," he rumbled, "and motivation. You should be thankful for both."

Furious and soaking wet, Hawke knew that the foul stink from the putrid waters of the Kirkwall docks would take days of dedicated scrubbing to clear from her hair and skin. The clothes were a lost cause.

" _Thankful_ ," she spat. "We'll see how thankful you are when I drag myself out of here and you'll have to live with a walking, talking cesspool following you around!"

"Only should you succeed," he reminded her, "in crossing to the steps and extracting yourself. The odor will be proof of your victory."

She flung a fistful of sludge at him. Unfazed, he merely watched it spatter at his feet, spraying anything in its path with muddy slime.

"Smell that?!" Hawke called, inhaling theatrically. "Yes! Victory smells like piss and cheap ale!" She narrowed her eyes, slowly inching along the rotting wood and reaching toward the next log. "And as soon as I get over there, _so will you_."

"I look forward to it," he replied calmly. "I do not hope you drown."

Hawke fumed, letting her brain devise very creative revenge uses for the sludge she was accruing as she slowly and carefully rage-paddled to the nearest sturdy object.


	4. A Visit From an Old Friend

****Anonymous asked:**** ** **"**** Not sure if you still want Hawke/Arishok prompts! If not, then congrats on an excellent new chapter of Starkhaven Is For Lovers! If so: Cadhla (I hope I spelled her name right) comes to visit Hawke briefly, and they examine the differences between her interactions with Sten, and Hawke's interactions with the Arishok."

This was rather fun to write; maybe I should expand on it later?

* * *

"You might be queen, but I've seen you naked."

Hawke leaned back as a large qunari in a proportionately enormous apron plonked a pair of frightening-looking mugs on the table between herself and Cadhla, being careful to avoid the sloshing runover.

The former Cousland smiled, wrapping long, delicate fingers along the handle of her tankard and raising it in a toast. "Over ten years later, and I still have bigger breasts."

Mairead clanked her glass in salute. "Over ten years later, and you still lord that over me."

They drank deeply, as best they could manage with such richness. The mulled wine found in the compound was brewed for qunari, and could render a human unconscious in three mugs flat.

Smirking more than a little at Cadhla's resulting cough, Hawke rolled her shoulders. "Where's the Sten? Reporting in?"

The Warden nodded, wine-induced fit finally subdued. "The Arishok wasn't in Seheron, and he has to report directly. I needed to creep unnoticed through the Free Marches – this was a good opportunity for the both of us." She sipped at her drink again, much more conservatively this time. "Traveling alone is dangerous, even for Wardens, and there's no one I trust with my life more than him."

"So he's going with you to Antiva, then."

Cadhla sighed, her delicate feminine features pulled into a frown. "We need to lay low until I journey back to Denerim. We cannot contract on any more ships; the one we took here was the last."

"Then I'm glad I got your letter in the nick of time." The timing had been opportune, to say the least. "You'll stay with me at the estate, and the Sten's staying here?"

"He stands out less in the compound," the Queen of Ferelden agreed. "And we need to go unseen. Though he's told me much of the Arishok, enough that I hope to meet him." She tapped her fingernails on the table, their polished sheen rather incongruous with the enormous greatsword that rested against the wall beside them. Amber-brown eyes narrowed, she stared at her childhood friend thoughtfully. "You have access to the compound, he must approve of you. How well do you know him?"

Hawke said nothing, choosing instead to take a generous swig of wine as her answer. Cadhla knew her silences and looks; it took less than a moment for realization to light up her face.

" _Bollocks,_ " she managed.

"Queens don't say 'bollocks,'" Hawke reminded dully, but Cadhla was unfazed.

"I _am_ queen; I'll say what I damn well please. _Maker_ , Mairead!" She leaned her elbows in the table, studying her suddenly less-than-talkative companion intently. "Oh, Andraste's mercy, _Leandra_. I had forgotten– "

"She doesn't know," Hawke insisted, "and I'd appreciate it if, for the time you're here, you referred to him by anything other than name in front of her."

"'Special friend,'" Cahdla offered, "'The Beast from the East,' 'Battering-Ram-Cock-man?'"

Mairead snickered into her drink. How she had missed moments like these with her thoroughbred, beautifully noble, effortlessly _classy_ friend.

"Remind me to introduce you to Isabela when she gets back to town." She leaned her chin on the back of one hand. "She's the filthiest-mouthed pirate to ever sail the seas, I promise."

Cadhla raised one perfect eyebrow, tilting her head. "If this Isabela ever was a frequent patron of Denerim whorehouses," she replied, "I believe you."

Hawke was about to inquire further when a voice like a rockslide caught her attention.

"Kadan."

Both women turned. "Yes?"

It was the Sten who had spoken, standing beside their table and radiating cool from the night air. Hawke started, her eyes glued to the Sten's relatively unadorned skull as her obvious surprise at his appearance commandeered her mouth. "You have no horns!"

"I do not," he replied flatly, crossing his arms across his chest. "Congratulations on having functioning eyesight."

Raising her hands defensively, Hawke attempted to explain. "I've never seen a hornless qunari before, only heard of them or read about their existence." Her eyes brightened as an analogy came to mind. "Like a unicorn! But the complete opposite."

He stared at her for a moment before turning his attention to Cadhla, who said nothing and nonchalantly sipped at her drink.

_Right._

He took a seat on one of the massive benches, armor settling as a steaming mug was placed in front of him.

"I am Sten of the _beresaad_ ," he rumbled. "The Arishok informs me that you have studied the _antaam_ ; recite what you know."

Hawke could feel the table's other occupants watching intently as she spoke, using as much of her new language as she could. She talked about the unit's purpose, structure, and expectations, stumbling across the elongated vowels somewhat like what she expected a drunk qunari would sound like.

As she finished, the Sten studied her thoughtfully. "Your information is correct," he conceded. "Your pronunciation is in need of improvement."

Lips pressed between her teeth, Mairead groaned inwardly. "I hear that in chorus every day."

"To hear criticism once is an opportunity," the Sten declared. "Twice is a failure."

A happy sigh pulled Hawke's attention as Cadhla stretched her arms across the table, laying her head on the wood and turning to beam blissfully at her friend. "Ah," she breathed, "It's so _nice_ to see him doing this to someone other than me."

Hawke smiled wearily. "He yells because he cares."

"Don't I know it."


	5. Tchotchkes

**Anonymous asked:** "I know you're hard at work on the next Arrowhead chapter and I would never want to take away from that but... I'd love a drabble from the Arishok's POV to tide me over. Any scene, anywhere. I miss him terribly."

SPEED ARISHAWKE FLUFF COMING RIGHT UP

* * *

He was the Arishok. He never doubted. He never questioned.

He sat on his meditation platform, watching. Observing. Things were as they should have been within the compound: two ashaad having a bout in the arena, a group of elven converts taking a lesson in sorting herbs, a weaponsmith sanding the wood of a polearm.

Things were as they should have been, and yet they were not.

The Qun instructed in the ways of order, of purpose, and condemned chaos. The Arishok knew this, and understood, and followed. Still, one spot of chaos – one tiny, unpredictable ripple in the stillness – had somehow become part of the compound's order.

He was the Arishok, and he would not have allowed another to quell that ripple for anything in Thedas.

She was a human, and she still had much to learn. Though _bas_ , she was, at her basest of essence, an exemplar of several core pillars of the qun. Her family was chosen, not born. She continued to hone her skills, despite having become nearly peerless in her surroundings. She faced nothing with half-strength – least of all him.

She was no longer _bas_ to many _. Basalit-an_ to some, he knew. And to others–

" _Kadan_."

He acknowledged her as she waved up at him from below, noting the thick sheen of slime and blood halfway up her forearms and spattered violently across the front of her armor. She had returned – things were as they should be.

"Arishok," she called brightly, the broad smile on her face undimmed by the fatigue in her limbs.

If he were ever asked to describe that smile in words, he would have spoken of the sea after a storm, of the sun, of a fire in winter and warm rain in the Seheron spring. And he still would have been unsatisfied.

The Arishok cared nothing for possessions, but could not deny that that smile was _his._

"I just got back from a procurement trip for Fenlin," she informed him, wiping green-streaked palms on a rag hanging from one of her belts. "Lesson learned: when he says to be careful because the plant's juice attracts cave spiders, prepare _before_ you start slashing stalks."

The blood was tinged purple, he observed, and solely the beasts'. Hawke was not wounded; she had learned quickly. It was another of her pleasant traits. _Other_ traits, however, he found less-than-desirable.

"I almost forgot," she added quickly, rummaging through her pack. "I brought you something."

Case and point: her habit of compulsively acquiring pointless bits of rubbish. The Arishok frowned as she searched. He had no desire for ripped human trousers or pouches of small, polished stones. How she managed to sell such things was beyond his understanding, nor did he care.

As if reading his thoughts, Hawke smirked. "Not pants this time, I promise." She produced a small, palm-sized object, holding it up for his approval. "See?"

He leaned forward, inspecting the offered object closely. It appeared to be a sun-bleached skull, long and thin, ending in a pointed jaw lined with razor-sharp teeth.

"It's a deepstalker skull," she explained proudly. "Horrid little things."

"It is old," he remarked with disdain, "and not your kill."

"No. But _I_ found it, and thought it might fit in that space on the bookshelf in front of the historical maps."

His eyes narrowed at the prospect of _yet more_ clutter. Every horizontal surface in his tent was quickly becoming overrun with such decorative trinkets, tokens of affection, and objects deemed useful for an unspecified future purpose.

He had been mated to a magpie.

Reason, he reminded himself. He would look to the qun for peace of mind, as he always did. He was the Arishok; he questioned nothing. Even this human's eccentricities, no matter her existence relative to his, could provoke him otherwise.

He did not know how she interpreted his silence, but she had somehow deemed it favorable. "It's a reminder that the blasted cretins can _die,_ " she declared, "and I'm keeping it."

His sanity, he conceded as he growled an acknowledgement.

She made him question his _sanity_.


	6. Blood and Fishhooks

**Lifeinthefire asked you:** "UGH you're fanfictions make me want to rip my heart out. So perfect. I'm always checking for more 3 I was wondering, if you could write a fic about Hawke falling ill from disease. It would be interesting to see how the arishok would react, seeing as her life is being threatened by something he cannot psychically over power or kill :) KEEP WRITING BRILLIANT WORKS !"

Though it's not the prompt _exactly_ , this is a similar idea I had rolling around in my head a while back. Seemed as good a reason as any to scribble it down! Be prepared – it's a long-un.

* * *

Elfroot, eighteen stalks. Deathroot, thirty-seven stalks. Spindleweed, twenty-four stalks. Deep mushrooms, twenty-one sprouts. Felandaris, six cuttings.

Fenlin hummed to himself as he delicately separated the dried stems and leaves, pinning them in bundles of five to the storage netting covering one wall. It was a rare day that he could take the time to inventory his stock with any sort of leisure. Usually he had his hands full with teaching duties, medical emergencies, or purposefully chatting with a certain patient-turned-psuedo-emissary as she absentmindedly did shredding, sorting busywork.

Said newly-minted ambassador was long overdue for one of their witty repartee sessions. Hawke was always good for a laugh - he would readily and lovingly grant her that – and a second pair of hands and a change in the air would be welcome in the dusty, dry Kirkwall afternoon.

He should have learned long ago to be careful what he wished for.

In short order, he heard the rustling of the entrance flap and a muttered curse in the common tongue.

"Hey, Fenlin," she called weakly, the warbling breaks in her voice both very conspicuous and _very_ familiar. "Want to hear a funny story?"

"Depends," he called back, not looking up from his work. "Are you bleeding?"

Silence.

"I'm not _not_ bleeding."

Sighing, he turned – and the smile he had been wearing slid straight for the ground. He was at her side in an instant, leaves and twigs abandoned as he coaxed her to a table. " _Hawke,_ " he managed, "what in Thedas did this?"

She winced as she allowed him to help her up to sitting on the sanded wood surface, stripping off layers of her armor as he went. "We raided a slavers' den," she explained as Fenlin examined the lacerations of varying depth and length that formed a crosshatch pattern along any exposed skin. "They might not have been the sharpest sticks in the bundle, but they weren't just going to hand over their property or come quietly."

She grabbed his hand to stop him when he reached for her clothes, and as she gingerly peeled back the edge of her undershirt, he saw the glint of metal. She couldn't pull it any further – a fishhook held it in place, piercing clear through the fabric and well into her skin. As soon as he saw it, a dozen – two dozen, more – appeared all through her arms and legs, their gleam scattered on anything not protected by leather or metal. A few were caught in her hair, and she hissed as he worked them out. They were barbed and bloodied, but thankfully had been kept from penetrating the skin by her thick, unruly curls.

"They were hung on strings from the makeshift ceiling by the hundreds," she continued as his nimble, trained fingers did their work. "We were so busy checking the ground for traps that no one bothered to look up." She offered him a pained half-smile. "Nasty piece of work, but we learned something, right?"  
One hook near her temple induced a flinch, and he pressed a rag to her ear as a trail of blood trickled down from where he had removed it. She took over for his hand quickly – the scratches on her scalp were most certainly _not_ the issue.

The healer swore under his breath as he assessed the rest of her body. "They might be small," he admitted, "but they're going to hurt. And if they've nicked anything under the skin or been coated in something, the sharp bits are going to be the least of your problems."

The look on her face said everything. She took a deep, shaky breath, fingers tightening into the rag staunching the blood flow from her head. "Can't say I'm surprised. Why is nothing ever easy?"

"Why is nothing involving _you_ ever easy, you mean?"

That earned him a smirk and the beginning of a retort, but a noise at the entrance caught their attention. One look at the shadow being cast by the light, and Fenlin recognized it instantly.

"Looks like someone still keeps _very_ good tabs on you," he observed as he headed for the flap, motioning for her to stay put.

_Like he ever stopped shadowing her footsteps to begin with,_ he mused, a single hand pulling back the heavy leather and canvas panel.

" _Shanedan_ , Arishok," he greeted while blinking in the sun as he turned his head upward to face his massive liege. "To what do I owe this visit?"

The Arishok met his stare in silence, as if both were acknowledging that yes, both knew _precisely_ why he was standing outside the healer's tent, but no, the elf was _not_ moving aside.

"I was informed that Hawke was seen entering the compound injured," he rumbled flatly, "and desire more information on the nature and extent of any damage."

"Understood," Fenlin acknowledged. "I'll write up a detailed report as soon as I'm finished."

The Arishok accepted with a sharp noise in his throat, but made no motion to budge or step in any direction of any sort.

The healer had learned to interpret his silences _ages_ ago, though any simpleton, however unschooled in qunari culture, could have read this one like a book.

"There's nothing more for you to do here," he informed him firmly, crossing his arms. "I'm going to be doing delicate, painful work with a variety of tools."

"I am no healer," the Arishok agreed, though something kept him rooted in place.

A something, Fenlin thought to himself with an equal mix of irritation and amusement, that the painted giant was fully aware of and now acknowledged for its legitimacy. And though he was genuinely happy for his commander, it was getting in the way of this elf doing his damned job.

"Your concern is completely valid," he assured him, green eyes focused with sincerity. "I will hand-deliver the report to you myself, down to the very last scrape and bruise."

The Arishok was nothing if not devoted to efficiency and reason. Just as he was about to turn away, a strained voice called out from within the rust-red tent walls.

"He can stay if he helps," Hawke declared, and it was out of Fenlin's hands.

She smirked up at the warlord from her hunched-over position on the table as he made his way to her side. "You would've left," she prodded, "just like that?"

"I am not of the priesthood," he grunted, eyes traveling the length of her wounds. "I would have served only as a distraction."

A grin wound onto her bloodied face, and she made no effort to hide a snicker.

"This amuses you," he growled, and Hawke leaned to the side as Fenlin set down a tray of instruments beside her.

She gently shook her head, hiding her smirk with a slight turn. "A little elf kicked the mighty Arishok out."

Fenlin stood with one hand on his hip, the other holding a pair of wire cutters menacingly. "Watch who you call 'little,'" he warned. "I'm the one holding the surgical tools."

"Good point." She stared at the sharp implement in his hands for a moment before turning up to him with weary resignation written clearly across her face.

"This is going to hurt like a bitch, isn't it?"

"Afraid so," he apologized, "seeing as they're barbed. We'll have to push the tips through before we cut them off and pull the hooks out." With a sympathetic hand, he pulled her rag-clenching fist away from her head. "You may want to hold onto something."

"Good," Hawke muttered, fiercely grabbing onto one of the Arishok's enormous hands and clutching it like she was drowning. "This is where you can help."

He grunted an assent, adjusting his posture.

_Smart man._

Starting with the least traumatic, those hooks that had already pierced clean through, Fenlin delicately held one in place as he clipped off the pointed, bloodstained tip.

"That wasn't so bad," Hawke said brightly, craning her neck to get a good look. When he simply held up the tiny bit of curved metal, her optimism deflated.

"Oh."

Pulling out the rest of the hook in a long, slow arc, he could feel the suction and skin dragging at it, trying desperately to keep the intrusion. Still, when it hit the tray, he felt his patient let out a long, slow breath.

"On the plus side," he offered as he moved down to the next one, "we can melt these down and re-use them."

"Hur- _rah_ ," she muttered, and he noticed that her other arm was trembling from effort.

It didn't get any easier.

Less than ten hooks later, and he had exhausted the clean punctures. The first time he had to push a barb through, he winced in sympathy as Hawke stifled a groan through gritted teeth. He knew it was grueling. He knew it was akin to torture. And he also knew that they had no other option.

Each hook was just as bad as the last - shaking, hyperventilating, even dry-retching over a pail from the pain. And all through it, he would catch glimpses of her tiny white hand tucked into a massive copper one. The Arishok had had to brace her a few times, remaining faithfully impassive as he watched various shapes and sizes of repurposed deterrents being plucked out of his precious one's flesh, accumulating in a pool of blood on the tray in front of him.

Fenlin would murmur reassurances and encouragement as he kept pace, always seeming to find a new hook just as he thought he was holding the final one. He'd lost count after thirty; neither he nor Hawke would benefit from knowing anything more than "enough." To Hawke's credit, she hadn't once lashed out or asked to be drugged, relying instead on self-control to keep herself steady and weather the worst of it. The Arishok's influence, he thought as he wiped the pliers on his apron, leaving a bloody streak across the pocket. He only hoped it would last.

"This should be it," he informed them both as a particularly large, bulky hook joined its fellows. "You're through."

Hawke collapsed inward, Fenlin rushing to sink his shoulder under her torso and support her back upright. "She's fainted," he told the Arishok as his leader's forearm wrapped around the front of her shoulders. "She needs to be lying down until– "

"I'm all right," she gurgled, clumsily attempting to disentangle herself from the two. "I was only out for half a second."

"You were still _gone,_ " the healer pointed out, "and you need a saarebas. I'm going to go send for one." He turned to the Arishok. "Try to keep her in one place, if you can."

"I don't need a saarebas," Hawke protested, struggling to hop off of the table despite the intervention of a warlord easily twice her size. "Just give me a few hours to rest."

"You could have been _posioned_ ," Fenlin reminded her with a stern glare, "and I'm sure those slavers didn't keep all their hooks polished and rust-free. The risk that something _else_ will happen is worse than the damage the hooks did."

"I've been poisoned before. I've accidentally poisoned _myself_ , for Maker's sake– "

"Hawke," Fenlin began slowly, tone edged with warning. "I'm not letting you walk out of here."

"But– "

Just as he was about to cut her off, a voice like a rockslide beat him to it.

"You will obey the healer," the Arishok issued calmly, "or I will remind you of this moment as you lay dying of fever."

That did it. Hawke locked stares with her horned, equally stubborn inamorata and let out a long, defeated sigh.

"I'm not giving you the satisfaction."

He let out a satisfied rumble in response, rewarding her for her compliance. "Good."

That settled, Fenlin made for the door flap to summon two saarebas. One for Hawke – and one for the Arishok.

Judging from her grip strength and the snapping sounds he had heard at about hook number fifteen, Hawke had broken at least three of the fingers in his left hand.

The elf stood in the sunlight while waiting for the healing mages, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin and the memory of the Arishok's unflinching expression as he stood beside his mate. He hadn't let slip any evidence of pain – which must have been considerable – and remained steady as he watched her suffer.

Fenlin smiled to himself as he mused over the Arishok's particular flavor of devotion.

_That's love for you._


	7. All That Remains

" **anonymous** asked:

So, I feel strange and stalker-y for asking this but here goes. I'm having a rough month. Just split up with my husband, moved me and the kids back in with my folks, might be getting laid off soon. Your fanfic really cheers me up when I get the chance to read it (even, oddly, the super-sad AllThatRemains fic you posted a few days ago). Some Arishok fluff would rilly rilly cheer me up so maybe, just maybe, you could find some time for a ficlet? Take pity on this poor anon?"

I was going to scrap this, but after hearing from you, I decided to finish it, rambling and all. I hope it helps.

Arishawke 'All That Remains,' with some Sebastian and Half-horned Sten thrown in.

Warning: it's a bit of a long one. And there's a bit of gore in it, so weak stomachs and vegetarians beware.

* * *

Hawke really had to stop drinking.

Orana's burning desire to serve overpowered her fear of the crowded markets enough for her to keep the estate's wine cellar stocked, but her 'discreet' storage of the empty bottles left something to be desired. It was spring, and so she had repurposed the empty winter larder until the smith could come by and collect the emptied vessels. However, the crystalline gleam of the Kirkwall sun lighting up the bottles greeted Hawke every time she set foot in the kitchen during the day, the warm green glow spilling out from under the shut door like a poorly-kept secret.

Nothing was easy while grieving, and easing off on the hooch was a particularly doomed endeavor. Mairead spent nearly every waking hour lightly sauced – enough to be alert, but also enough to quiet the part of her brain that insisted upon trying to show her every memory of her mother, like a persistent two-year old shoving a really neat picture book in your face.

She was determined to not have any of that this morning. Especially since she had finally gotten some blessed, irritatingly rare time alone. In the days following her mother's passing, Sebastian and Varric had taken to haunting her in shifts, the former assisting with household upkeep (the benefits of being raised in the nobility, she supposed) and the latter writing and bookkeeping on the massive desk in the main hall. They often spoke to her only when approached, and kept to themselves unless it was one of the daily mealtimes and they were prodding her to eat.

She was grateful for that – the quiet, not the nagging, _maker_ not the nagging – but she relished the peace that would last until Sebastian's shift started at midday. It would be fine, she had told them. She could manage for a morning. Maybe even go for a walk, if the mood struck. Varric had seemed dubious at the thought of her setting one foot outside the house unless dragged, while the Chantry brother was far more optimistic. Either way, she could finally be alone, really _alone._ With Ogre and a nearly-full bottle and a roaring fire. Not another soul in the damn place.

Finally settling down in front of the hearth with the mabari was, of course, the moment that she heard a door latch click open. From his position at the foot of the sofa, Ogre pricked up his ears, lifting his nose into the air and letting out a soft _whiff_ of air. He needn't get up.

And neither did Hawke. That had been the sound of the cellar door; Orana was out shopping and there was only one other person in Kirkwall with the key.

"Wasn't expecting anyone."

The Arishok crossed the room, seating himself on his favorite sofa – her mother's too – and stared down at her as she rolled up to sitting on the rug.

"I was... informed," he rumbled.

"I see." She picked up the bottle – glasses were for the weak – and took a long pull. "It's been a week and a half. You're a little late in offering your condolences."

"You have not been unguarded," he reminded her, "and your insistence on discretion has made my presence difficult."

Frowning, it took Hawke a moment to process his words. "How would you know that unless– " She groaned out a string of curses, leaning forward to press her head into her knees. "You've been keeping watch. Why am I not surprised?" She rolled her head to stare at him, gears in her mind whirring. "From the second floor of the manor across the square while the Latourettes are in Val Royeaux for the season, if I had to guess. And it has to be someone inconspicuous – one of the new elves in scout training?"

The hint of a pleased expression flickered on his dark face, and while she was irritated by being assigned a babysitter, it was still something of a relief for Hawke to call his movements. It was one of the few intimacies that the warlord enjoyed sharing with her – though she suspected that his different choice of bonding methods would only serve to frustrate her under the present circumstances.

She stood, moving to place the wine bottle on one of the polished wooden end tables. "When someone's died," she began, "the normal human custom is to bring flowers, but..." She offered him a forced, dry smirk as she set the bottle down with a bit more strength than necessary. "Those are kind of a _sore spot_ for me right now."

He grumbled an acknowledgement, shifting posture to his characteristic slouch against the upholstered back. "I am aware. The healer ensured that I was given a full understanding of your kind's death rituals."

"Fenlin came from Denerim," she reminded herself aloud. "And he's a healer, so he's seen his share."

The Arishok lifted his chin, earrings chiming delicately. "He expressed a desire to offer condolences in person."

Hawke sighed, gracelessly sitting beside him. "He doesn't need to. I'll come by sometime next week, when I'm..."

She trailed off. _Better,_ her brain offered. _Functional. Ready. Sober. Any combination of two._

After a few long moments of her silence, the Qunari stood, walking around the ornamental Orlesian chaise to inspect the portraits displayed on the wall beside the mantle. Hawke was among them, scars erased and cheeks reddened. She had never been fond of the likeness; her mother had commissioned it.

Leandra's face stared out from a gilded scrollwork frame, silver hair coiffed neatly into a perfect, pin-set bun at her nape. There was a determination in her eyes, an excitement. It had been painted mere weeks before they were set to begin living in the Amell estate, and her mother's optimism and pride in her reclaimed nobility shone brightly.

Hawke couldn't look at it without feeling like an utter disappointment. For failing to give her the aristocratic life she wanted, the aristocratic daughter she wanted. For failing to protect Carver, Bethany, anyone.

For loving the man she loved.

As if on cue, the Arishok turned to stare down at her, observing her expression and studying her intently.

"This painting prolongs your suffering," he declared flatly. "You should remove it."

Hawke prickled. "What would you know," she snapped. "Not _once_ have I seen a Qunari funeral."

Thank the Maker for the extended patience that her situation afforded her. "We treat our dead differently," he replied. "It does not mean that we do not experience grieving and loss."

Guilt stung at her, almost a familiar comfort by now. "I know," she continued, "I _know_ , and I understand, but..." She wrung her hands. " _Parents,_ Arishok. Children in the Qun are taken from theirs, and that bond– "

"We have those who shape us and form our families," he interrupted, "those who are beside us each day and fight and learn at our sides." Crossing his arms, he turned to face her fully. "Would you not grieve if the healer were to fall? The Sten? Any of your companions?"

She didn't want to think about that. Not right now. Pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes, she drew in a deep breath and counted to ten.

"I shouldn't have lashed out at you," she apologized slowly, dragging her fingers down her face. "I'm not doing well, you see."

"No," he agreed, "You are not."

He was quiet, then, and she could feel his gaze fixed upon her face as his expression changed to reflect what she had come to recognize as processing rapid-fire thoughts.

"Your meals have been adequate," he prompted.

"Yes."

"You have slept, bathed."

"As much as can be expected."

A frown tugged at his mouth, and he growled under his breath. "Then you need for nothing; I can offer nothing."

She shook her head, reaching for him and pulling him in close. "Absolutely untrue," she told him, pressing her forehead to his. "You're here. That's more than I even expected."

His claws pricked into her waist, one arm sliding under her backside to lift her against his chest and seat her at eye level.

"Your opinion of me," he rumbled, "is poor."

Hawke snickered weakly, wrapping her arms about his neck.

* * *

Time found them both back again on the hearthside sofa, Hawke having been convinced to pry the wine bottle out of her hand and replace it with a teacup. She curled up against the armrest across from the Arishok, feet tucked beneath her as she sipped at the steaming red concoction warming her throat.

"And the worst of it is all of the small things," she lamented. "Having to sign and transfer so many titles, answering sympathy letters..." Her head hit the lacquered wood behind her with a heavy _thunk_. "I don't even know what to do with all of her things."

He grunted, shifting to accommodate his large frame on the human-sized furniture. "What was her purpose?"

Confused, she straightened upright. "I'm sorry, her _what?_ "

"The Qun honors the dead with their tools, weapons – their purpose. The flesh is immaterial." He tapped a claw to the rim of his teacup. "I do not know her trade."

Hawke snorted at 'weapons,' almost scalding the roof of her mouth and inside of her nose. "I don't know about a weapon," she managed, replacing her cup on the table, "or trade, but she kept herself busy." A kind of determination settled across her shoulders, and she swung her legs over the side of the cushions. "You know, I could probably dig up something." She stood and straightened her tunic, resolute. "Give me a moment."

She considered the Amell crest, the first set of silver her mother had purchased for the estate, even a favorite gown. Her favorite tea set. The Orlesian locket Hawke had 'bought' (nicked) for her. An angry letter she wrote, but did not send, to the Viscount. Countless other things that peppered the house, though Hawke had only absently considered the treasure trove that lay settled, untouched in her mother's room. The idea of venturing into what had turned into a museum of a dead woman's life was something she wasn't sure she could face, even for the Arishok's assignment. So she considered everything within sight, and all carried their own memories, true enough, but they ranged from too bitter to too specific and she found fault with everything she touched.

Finally, her gaze fell on the small writing desk by her mother's favorite window, enameled inkwell glittering in the light. The seal, custom monogrammed implements, and froofy-looking parchment had been one of her mother's favorite indulgences for her correspondence; many a suiting inquiry had been made upon the desk's carved surface.

" _Mairead, honestly. Three prospective matches is hardly unreasonable, and I worry about , I've had a letter from Lady Greenhall. Her eldest is expecting again – imagine! She's not my age and has two grandchildren already..."_

_"You've been out all night again. Well, clean up and get some food in you – you're helping me write the thank-you notes for the hearthwarming gifts."_

_"I have another letter for Bethany. I don't care how you do it, but I know you can. Just... see that she gets this, please."_

This was it.

Hawke hadn't even been aware of her fingertips running across the polished wood, but let her hand rest on the edge as she heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind.

"The craftsmanship is admirable," he observed, and Hawke smiled a bit despite herself.

"It was absurdly expensive. I kept trying to convince her that we were being fleeced."

He rumbled an affirmative, pausing for a few long moments before speaking again. "When you see this, do you not remember her clearly?"

"I do." She pressed her lips tightly together between her teeth, fighting the sting at the corners of her eyes and back of her throat. The warmth of the sun on her skin had lost its burn, instead pouring through the window like a comfort and brightening up the place where Leandra had worked and worried and gossiped and thrown noble fits on artisanal paper.

This, she thought to herself. This, more than anything, was her mother.

"You know," she managed, throat tight and dry, "I don't think I need more than this, really. In the end." She watched as the flutter of leaves outside the window shifted the sunlight, highlighting the glimmer of shining metal on her mother's seal. The scrollwork monogram left a few flakes of dried pigment beneath it in the stand, having been neglected in haste.

Hawke wouldn't clean it.

Inhaling deeply, the rush of air that filled her lungs seemed to help purge some of the remaining alcohol in her blood. "I'll send for the tradesmen tomorrow to come get everything else."

She sighed, exhaling tension and relief as she leaned back to fall against her lover's armored chest. A clawed hand found its way to her hair, and she allowed herself a small smile.

"You want any of it?"

He snorted.

"No."

* * *

Sebastian gently _clicked_ the door shut behind him, taking extra care in case Hawke had managed to fall into precious sleep. It was well after midday, and he wasn't sure what to expect – it was the first time since Leandra's passing that he and Varric had left the estate's new owner alone with herself for an extended period.

The house wasn't on fire. That was a promising start.

He stepped through the foyer, and was met with two surprises. Surprise the first: Hawke wasn't at her usual place in front of the hearth, nor was there any evidence of her having been so (specifically, bottles) or anywhere nearby.

Surprise the second: There was a large Qunari standing in the center of the main hall, dead ahead, regarding him with interest.

The massive soldier stared at Sebastian, arms crossed over his painted chest. Twin swords were strapped to his back, and a silver-white braid hung over one shoulder.

He was now glad, quite glad, that Hawke had been so brutally honest with him about her time with the Qunari.

"Good afternoon," he greeted in his rolling brogue, forcibly relaxing his shoulders. "Is Hawke still in?"

Narrowed eyes, a bright unnerving violet at their core, swept him from head to toe. "No," the Qunari responded flatly. "She requested that I wait until her return, which was promised to be prompt."

Sebastian chuckled. "Prompt. And for Hawke, that is..."

"Yes," the painted giant agreed, and Sebastian was about to search for more common ground in Hawke for them to speak of when the Qunari turned his head, revealing what the plaited hair had hidden: a severed horn, the broken edges filed and sanded.

"You must be the Sten," he offered. "She has mentioned you."

The Sten turned back to him, nodding his chin to indicate the bow on the Chantryman's back. "You must be the archer who shot her. She has mentioned you."

They stood in silence then, the Sten studying him intently and Sebastian growing increasingly uncomfortable as the moments ticked by. The sense of two worlds colliding was made ever stronger in the tense quiet, and the archer found himself praying to the Maker and Andraste and whoever else was listening for something, anything to pull him away.

As if on cue, there came a loud, insistent rapping from the door.

Sebastian let out an inward sigh of relief, turning back toward the entryway. "That must be the pig Orana ordered. If you'll excuse me– "

He darted away, only too happy to greet the butcher's delivery hands with a smile and instruct them to bring the beast around to the side gate by the larder, sliding the carrying pole into place on the rack above an unlit fire pit in one corner of the gardens.

"Strung and cleaned, ser," the younger of the two had said as they took their leave. "Just as Miss Orana likes."

Sebastian thanked them, strolling back into the kitchen through the servants' door while shedding his bracers and rolling up his sleeves. If he had to wait for Hawke, he wouldn't be idle. He pulled an apron off of the hook, tying it about his waist and taking the carving tools with him as he returned to the delivery.

He had only just knelt beside the head and taken a knife in his hand when a voice from behind stopped him.

"You intend to start at the head."

He turned to see the Sten leaning against the doorframe, observing him with undisguised disapproval written across his face.

Wiping the back of one hand across his forehead, Sebastian leaned back on his heels. "You disagree?"

"Yes."

Silence.

As he waited for an answer, the prince fought down a grimace. Ah, he thought, so _this_ was what Hawke had meant.

"Then," he prodded politely, "do you have a recommendation?"

With a grunt, the Sten stood, crossing the distance to the pig in a few long strides. "The backside first. For fat." He reached for one of the knives, but Sebastian stopped him.

"You may wish to put on an apron," he suggested. "Otherwise, Orana won't let you set foot back in the house."

The name 'Orana' registered with the Sten, and he paused. "The elf."

"Yes."

He frowned. "She is small." The implied _and cannot stop me from walking through a door_ was clear.

A smirk warmed Sebastian's mouth. "Yes," he agreed, "but she is Hawke's cook, and this is Hawke's pig."

He could see gears moving behind the Sten's eyes as the Qunari considered the implications for a moment before letting out an irritated huff as he turned back toward the kitchens.

"Second hook," Sebastian called after him, "on the left."

* * *

Hawke sighed as she shrugged her satchel from her shoulder, depositing it on whatever flat surface was nearby. She wasn't sure how long she had been out, but the bright sun and market crowds had felt oppressive and made the entire ordeal seem like hours. The way she had been carefully greeted with cheerful smiles and forced chipper conversation had made her feel like she was surrounded by a field of eggshells that no one wanted to disturb.

She had even gotten a ludicrously good deal out of the notorious Hightown weaponsmith, who had sold her steeply discounted leather oil with his 'best wishes in this difficult time.' Though her coinpurse appreciated it, Hawke would have much rather had him yell curses about how the amount she was offering insulted him, his craft, and his entire family line. Hell, she would have even been happy if he had flipped the maintenance table. She'd gladly take a few scrapes from flying objects over sad eyes and obvious pity.

Coming home had been a relief, and though she was looking forward to seeing the Sten again, she wasn't looking forward to the constant mothering from...

_Sebastian._

Unease settled into her gut as she scanned the room. He wasn't at her writing desk, nor at the bookshelves on the landing. And the Sten wasn't in sight either, which didn't bode well. As she checked the upper level, she hoped that he had simply gotten tired of waiting for her and left for the compound before the paragon of Purity and Light and Rainbows strolled in and engaged him in theological discussion.

As she made it to the second landing, a small clamor from the kitchens caught her ear. Two voices – one with a distinct Starkhaven accent, the other low and clipped. And both sounded distinctly agitated.

Cursing, she prayed as she ran down the stairs, through the main hall. She had to get there and stop them before they did something dangerous. At least they had taken it outside, from the sound of things. She pushed open the kitchen door, grabbing a large bowl as a makeshift shield as she made a beeline for the gardens –

\- and stopped short in the doorway.

There, on opposite sides of what she assumed used to be a slaughtered pig, stood the archer and the Qunari, both apron-clad and absolutely _covered_ in pig's blood. The area looked like the scene of a battle, with platters strewn about holding misshapen and asymmetrical cuts of meat, strips of skin hanging from a branch, and two messy piles of bones angrily arranged but very clearly separate from one another.

And Ogre some distance away in the shade, happily gnawing on what, to Hawke's chagrin, looked suspiciously like a face.

"...for stews," Sebastian argued, gesturing to his pile of carnage. "We use them regularly when making broth for the destitute in– "

"Weak soup is a waste," the Sten interrupted. In one hand was a large, freshly-cut femur. "The hound is a warrior, and would benefit from the added strength."

"The hound regularly eats _rubbish_ ," the prince forced out, "and is quite content, but thank you for your concern. Now if you would kindly _put that in the stew pile_."

"No."

After clenching and unclenching his fist a few times, Sebastian dragged the back of one hand across his forehead. "I am an experienced cook," he pointed out.

"I am an experienced hound-master," the Sten countered, watching as the blood smeared across his opponent's face, "and you are apparently a painter." The hint of a smirk tugged at his mouth. "It is an improvement."

Sebastian's exasperated sigh was the last straw. Unable to hold it in any longer, Hawke dissolved into peals of laughter. The laughter quickly escalated into loud guffaws, and as the two occupants of her garden turned to stare, she clutched her sides and leaned against the doorframe, sliding down to the ground as she struggled to breathe. Every hoot, every crack hurt, but she hardly noticed over the tears of mirth rolling down her cheeks. It was just so damned _funny_ , and she wouldn't have been surprised if her uncontrollable laughter were enough to wake the dead.

"Stubborn _asses_ ," she gasped, trying in vain to calm her lungs.

_But I love you both._

Even with Orana's skill, this was going to be the toughest, driest cut of pork Kirkwall had ever seen. Hawke would eat it, as would these two idiots – and she would rub their faces in it every minute.

As she struggled to stand, snickers subsiding, she closed her eyes and smiled. Life went on, as ridiculously as normal, whether she wanted it to or not.


	8. Adventures in Cat-sitting

**Prompt:** " prompts! Love your story and I hope this will help you to continue being an amazing writer and just all around awesome! Lets see..how about Hawke and the Arishok get a VERY fluffy cat who happens to be crazy cat aggressive but to only one of them."

* * *

The dozens of small white slips Hawke cupped in her hands could have easily been mistaken for white rose petals at a distance. 

Grimacing, she pressed the garbage can pedal with her foot and dumped the wrappers of what she estimated to be about 20 band-aids into the stainless steel barrel – while the culprit watched her every move from the comfortable protection of the Arishok's lap.

“When I agreed to watch Beth's cat while she's at the conference,” Hawke muttered, “I assumed I'd be getting a _cat,_ not a monster.”  
  
Ygritte was eight pounds of white fur, satin ears, and the purest evil – and she was Hawke's responsibility for the next week. Making sure that the cat didn't die was proving to be more and more difficult with each passing hour.

“I try to play with her, she attacks me. I go to put on her collar, she attacks me. I put her food down, she attacks me.” She sighed, reaching for the tube of Neosporin. “I look like something out of Hellraiser, and I've had this cat for six hours. I don't know how Beth does it.”

“She does not trust you,” the Arishok answered, scratching the longhaired feline behind the ears, a gesture that was met with a contented purr. “Your movements are nervous. Your fear makes her suspicious. It is a common, and often appropriate, inference to make.”

Glaring, Hawke slapped a band-aid around her ring finger. “The first thing she did when she got here was lunge for me. Who wouldn't be cautious after that?”

“You are put on guard when a visibly nervous person approaches you,” he reminded her. “Animals operate on the same assessments.”

“If so,” Hawke continued, “then it stands to reason that if I approach her calmly and confidently, she'll be put at ease, right?” Determination settled into her face, and she closed the distance between them in long strides.

“All right, cat,” she declared as she stood in front of them. “I am bigger than you, I share half my DNA with your master, and I have thumbs. I am not afraid of you, and I will prove that now by petting you in a calm and confident manner.”

She didn't make it within six inches before being bitten.

“Oh, that is _it,”_ she spat, despite Ygritte's petulant yowling and hissing to scoop her up and hold her at arm's length. “You have to live with me for a week while your owner learns to cure cancer sipping piña coladas at a hotel.” Storming off toward the kitchen, Hawke ignored the gnawing on her left wrist. “I AM GETTING YOU TREATS AND WE ARE _GOING_ TO BE FRIENDS GOD FUCKING DAMNIT.”

Hawke's persistence eventually paid off, but not without a lot more blood, critique from the Arishok, and three foul-smelling tins of sardines.

And three weeks after Beth's return, she was _still_ finding white hairs on everything.

“Fucking _cat_.”

 


	9. Bitch night

**Prompt:** "How about the Arishok hangin' with Hawke's buddies (preferably Varric and Isabela because c'mon, that's hilarious)?"

* * *

As he shut the door behind him and heard the _beep_ of the lock, the Arishok was immediately aware that he was not alone in his apartment.

Sitting on the stools at the polished surface of the enormous custom island in his kitchen, a large spread of open Chinese food containers between them, were the stocky bar owner and his tall cohort, a dark-skinned woman with black hair and clothes that served very little function. He recognized them from encounters while out with Hawke, though their names eluded him. He hadn't cared to remember then at the time.

“Welcome home,” the woman greeted, turning to smirk widely. “Hard day at work?”

He grumbled a response, assessing them from a distance. “You are Hawke's acquaintances.”

“Varric,” the man replied. “For the, you know, third time.”

“And I'm Isabela,” his companion nearly purred. “I'll remind you as many times as you need.” She spread her hands, indicating the cheap feast steaming up his countertop. “Tonight's our weekly bitchfest. It's Hawke's turn to host, and since she lives here now...” Winking, she toasted him with her beer. “Here we are.”

Varric leaned against the table, giving the owner of their venue his attention, at least. “And it's a nice place. Really.” He rubbed the bridge of his flat nose, sighing. “Didn't mean to intrude, but our gracious hostess is late. She gave us the door code.”

After a moment, the Arishok turned and hung his jacket on its usual hook. “The apartment is also hers. She is well within rights to entertain.”

Though he did find it mildly irritating that the one time his partner chose to remember that it was 'their' apartment and not 'his' – as he had had to remind her almost daily since she'd moved in – it had been to surprise him with guests. Notice would have been appreciated, he groused, but quickly realized that it had been hours since he last thought to check his phone. Sure enough, she had sent him a message that afternoon.   
  
_“Having friends over for dinner,”_ it read. _“Might be late.”_ And, a few lines down: _“Be nice.”_

As his eyes scanned the screen, he heard Varric chuckle.   
  
“Don't believe us?”

Isabela waved a yet-untouched container. “We bought you Mu Shu Pork.”

Without a word, the Arishok rolled up his sleeves and joined them in the kitchen. He was a diplomat, a skilled negotiator. It would be trivial for him to host for an hour.   
  
At worst, Hawke would be home soon.

As he poured himself a glass of white wine, his choice was met with disbelief from the man across the table.

“You're wasting Riesling on Chinese food?” He arched a blond eyebrow, beer in hand. “Hawke was right – there are just some things that classy people do differently.”

“So,” Isabela interrupted, turning and hooking her stiletto heels around the bars of her stool as he sat beside her. “Before you walked in, we were just getting into the juicy bits. Varric here was telling me about an absolute _worm_ of an employee– ”  
  
“He's been skimming off the till and creeping the daylights out of the shot girls,” Varric muttered, pulling over the container of fried rice. “Last time I hire one of Merrill's weird college buddies.”

“And I'm having a devil of a time shaking a one-night-stand from last month,” she continued. “Sneaky bastard got my number off my phone.” She leaned forward, cleavage pushing at the edges of her shirt. “So,” the bag of fantail shrimp was offered, “got anything good you want to get off your chest?”

The Arishok considered for a moment, then accepted one of the fried concoctions.

“The Greek ambassador's wife came to visit him at work while he was at lunch with his American mistress,” he rumbled.

A grinning “Oh _lord_ ” quickly came from Isabela, while Varric laughed and shook his head with a more sympathetic “The poor fool.”

“The resulting chaos,” the Arishok continued as he snapped apart a pair of disposable chopsticks, “prevented anyone from accomplishing any work the rest of the day. Several pieces of furniture were broken, and the noise of their repairs will be a further annoyance.”

“All right,” Isabela replied, stealing an egg roll. “Yes, that's a good story, but can you beat the time a man mailed me a model of his own dick?”

  
\--  
  
Hawke arrived home just in time to interrupt her two friends from telling her wealthy, powerful, _very_ _dignified_ boyfriend the story about the Spandex Panties Catapult incident. And she vowed never to be late for Bitchfest night at her apartment again.


	10. Marigold

**Prompt:** "You asked for it! Your modern Arishawke + anything having to do with children (theirs/a friend's/totally random kid, doesn't matter)"

* * *

(Wow, this one got away from me!)

The annual Policeman's Ball started at 6pm and ended at 1am. That meant seven hours of Donnic and Aveline entrusting their precious baby girl to Hawke, the reigning queen of Making Good, Well-Thought-Out Decisions. It might have been made a bit easier by the presence of the Arishok, who by all measures seemed like a sterling example of all things logical and strict.

Composed he may have been, Hawke mused, but he was quickly proving that he knew jack shit about children.

Marigold sat at the kitchen island, legs swinging wildly in the air from the edge of the tall, two-hundred-dollar designer stool her corduroy-clad butt had clambered onto. "Nevaeh said that all cops do is eat donuts and listen to the radio. She's in the Daisy class." She dragged her arm across her nose. "Mum says she's a stuck-up priss."

Have reached across the island to tug a lint ball from the girl's bone-straight coppery locks. "Okay, well, what do _you_ think about Nevaeh?"

Marigold shrugged, leaning down and opening her mouth wide to breathe on the polished countertop and watch it fog up. "She's okay. I'm in Sunflower class. We only play together twice a week. She's bad at climbing."

Her data on this girl apparently now exhausted, the girl rolled her face on the cool surface in front of her. "Why are your counters white?"

"White is more responsive to ultraviolet disinfection," the Arishok explained as he assembled ingredients beside the refrigerator. "This kitchen utilizes such a system for routine cleansing."

Marigold crinkled her nose.

Hawke shot her partner's back a silent _'Really?'_ before turning to their charge. "So basically, it's easier to clean." She frowned. "And also, he is super boring."

"Yeah," Marigold replied calmly, "I know."

Hawke smirked and made a 'lips-zipped' motion across her mouth, which earned her a sloppy grin and a giggle from the child oozing across the tabletop.

"So, 'boring,'" she began as she sidled up to him. "What's for dinner?"

"Pork loin with Humboldt Fog," he said as he pulled out the cutting board. "Baby roasted potatoes with apple and rosemary, and artichoke hearts."

Hawke stared.

"You disapprove of my choice."

"You want to feed that to a _kid?_ "

"It is appropriate."

Interest piqued, Hawke crossed her arms and leaned against the fridge. "By all means."

"Pork loin is lean," he explained, "and the primary protein source. Potatoes are a simple starch, and artichokes contain fiber."

"And the Humboldt?"

A voice perked up from the island. "What's Humboldt?"

"Cheese made from goats," she called over her shoulder, "and _he eats it_."

The resulting _eeeeeeewww_ only served to reinforce Hawke's smug expression as she waited for him to explain away that particular choice.

"She cannot have _bleu_ ," he said. "The mold used is unsafe for children."

Biting back a laugh, Hawke shooed him away from the counter. "Arishok, she's _five._ She doesn't eat anything she can't pronounce."

Frowning, he allowed himself to be moved aside. "I assume you have an alternative prepared."

"Of course."

\-----

Fifteen minutes later, Hawke was at the stovetop, her plucky assistant kneeling on a stool alongside her. Orange powder poured out from a packet into the saucepan, where an army of strained dinosaur-shaped pasta sat strained and waiting in a pool of milk and butter.

Marigold manned the wooden spoon, stirring furiously before the powder could settle into chunks. Hawke hovered over her, a small teardrop-shaped plastic bottle waiting in her hand.

The Arishok had since been relegated to hot dog slicing duty.

"The instructions on the box made no mention of food coloring," he observed, but neither woman so much as looked at him.

"Because dinosaurs were _green_ ," Marigold yelled.

Hawke snickered as she squeezed in three drops of blue dye.

"Yeah, because dinosaurs were green. Duh."

\-----

His refusal to eat Hot Dogs and Green Dino Mac meant that the Arishok was abandoned in the kitchen to heat leftovers while the girls grabbed their bowls and beelined for the sofa.

"I grabbed Despicable Me," Hawke told her, grabbing the remote and turning the DVD player on. "My sister said that it's good."

Marigold slunk to the floor, clumsily depositing her bowl on the glass-top coffee table. "Yeah, but there're two of them."

"I know," her sitter replied, dramatically producing the sequel from the cushions. "WHICH IS WHY I HAVE BOOOOOOTH."

Marigold clenched her tiny fists and bared her teeth. " _Yuuuuussssss._ "

Triumphant, Hawke hit 'play' and stabbed a stegosaurus clean through with her fork.

\-----

"Here," Hawke told the Arishok, pressing a cloth bundle into his hands. "Your refusal to touch the green cheesy slime means that I'm on dish duty, and you're on pajama patrol."

He hesitated, studying the Dora the Explorer-patterned flannel as Hawke rolled up her sleeves.

"We're not starting the next movie until she's changed," she instructed, "so make sure she puts them on."

After he had firmly herded her into the bathroom, the Arishok placed the pajamas on the sink counter. "These are the sleep clothes your mother provided," he informed her. "Change into them."

She sat cross-legged on the woolly bath mat. "No."

He started. That had not been the answer he was expecting.

"Yes."

"You're not the boss."

"This is my home; I am the 'boss.' Put them on."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

The Arishok's frustration began to edge at his nerves. He had been given one task. One task: put the small child in pajamas.

"You cannot simply refuse," he countered, sitting on the covered toilet. "Give me an articulated reason."

Rolling her eyes, she pulled down the clothes, separating the shirt as they tumbled to the floor. "These ones have _tags,"_ she explained, thrusting the collar up for his inspection. "Tags are itchy."

He leaned down to check, confirming the presence of the irritant. "I see," he replied. "What alternative do you suggest?"

\-----

A few minutes later, as Hawke was finishing the dishes and the Arishok put away the dry, Marigold emerged from the bathroom and marched to the sofa positively _swimming_ in one of Hawke's plush microfiber bathrobes, the bottom dragging after her like a fur train.

"Hey," she called to the one in charge of that decision, "why does Marigold look like she just got crowned Queen of England?"

He smirked.

\-----

It was the third time through Despicable Me 2 that found Hawke and Marigold asleep on the couch, the latter a splayed out tangle of limbs across the cushions with her head on a pillow in Hawke's lap.

The Arishok took the remote from the table, reducing the volume of the squawking yellow cretins to a tolerable level, both for their sake and his.

As he sank into the armchair beside the sofa, Hawke stirred. She blinked drowsily and checked on her charge, letting out a snicker at the open-mouth soft snoring. "Third time's the charm."

The Arishok leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands folded. "How," he asked, genuinely intrigued, "are you this capable with children?"

She smiled at him, leaning her head back against the soft upholstery. "I helped raise Beth and Carver. If I can weather through twins, one's not so bad." After a moment, she added, "And she's a good kid."

He rumbled something in his throat. "She is overly energetic."

"She's _five_."

A few feet away on the carpet, her phone vibrated dully. "That'll be Aveline," she said as he picked it up to check.

"They are leaving the venue," he confirmed, "and will be here in twenty minutes."

Hawke looked at him apologetically. "Grab her bag, will you? I can't move without waking her up."

Not wishing to wake the finally-bested child, the Arishok silently traversed the penthouse, collecting toys and books and reorganizing them into the canvas tote she had arrived with. He approved of the books – most were learning-based, either about colors or species of African mammals or age-appropriate social lessons. He could not, however, discern any educational value in a doll whose skirt and hat were used to transform her to and from a cupcake.

The intercom buzzed as he finished.

As they entered, dress uniforms crisp and bright, Hawke waved from her position on the couch. Chuckling, Donnic reached down to scoop up his mumbling, apparently boneless daughter, yards of extra fabric and all.

Aveline smiled, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes betraying just how pleased she was. "Looks like you wore her out."

"Well," Hawke replied, rolling her stiff shoulder, "I didn't need to tie her up, if that's what you're asking."

As Marigold melted into his shoulder, Donnic turned to his wife. "We should get her home, it's late." He grinned at Hawke, struggling to keep hold of the oversized bathrobe. "We'll call tomorrow."

Picking up the tote, Aveline agreed. "Thanks again, Hawke."

"Anytime."

As they watched the family leave, the Arishok's gaze followed Marigold's strawberry blonde head as she disappeared behind the door.

"Hawke."

"Mm," she managed, stretching.

"We have not yet discussed the prospect of children."

She groaned, turning toward the bedroom. "No," she answered, "you are not starting this conversation at two in the morning. Save that shit for tomorrow."

After a moment, he followed.

_Fair enough._


	11. Caught in the Rain

**Prompt:** "prompt: caught in the rain"

* * *

Hawke was never using that stupid weather app on her phone again.

That day's forecast had been displayed in graphs, charts, and statistics, which were all very fancy and impressive but didn't help for shit if you didn't know what they meant.

Worst $1.99 she had ever spent.

Needless to say, the sudden torrential downpour that had attacked them as they strolled down a posh-looking street with artisanal _everything_ stores had reduced their date from a Meg Ryan movie to Michael Bay in an instant. The one thing to her advantage was that areas like that were inevitably populated with kitschy gourmet coffee shops, and she pulled them both into the nearest set of doors.

They were already soaked, top-down. Hawke would have been grousing about it more had it not been for the smell of pastries, warm and sweet and fresh, greeting her from every inch of the place. She wasn't particularly one for sweets, but the fumes from the coffee roasters were what she thought heaven would smell like, and the orange-peach walls and upholstered chairs were adorably inviting.

Also, why were there always birds painted on everything in these places?

The Arishok had already taken a seat by the window, fanning his dripping suit jacket across the back of his chair.

"Sorry about the rain," she offered as she joined him. "When I asked you out after work, I checked my phone. Not a word about rain."

His smartphone buzzed in his pocket. As he checked it, he made a noise in his throat. "There is a flood warning in effect," he informed her, "until further notice."

She groaned, pulling out her own phone and switching it off. "Moscow rule number nine."

"' Technology will always let you down.' "

She smirked, leaning back in her chair to study him a bit. "Why am I not surprised that you know the Moscow Rules?"

"I could say the same about you." He crossed his legs, folding his hands. "You continue to prove... interesting."

"Is that why you agreed to see me again so soon after I slept with you?" she asked. "I thought at least a few days of radio silence was pretty standard."

"I have no reason to adhere to such arbitrary rules," he said flatly. "You invited; I accepted. I consult nothing more than my own desire to see you."

His last words plucked at something in her chest, and she smiled. "Even though seeing me entails drenching a five thousand dollar suit?"

"It is easily replaced, if necessary." He stood, even more impossibly tall from Hawke's seated perspective. "Tell me your order and I will place it."

She reached for her bag. "A black coffee and something with oatmeal in it, thanks." As she dug out her wallet, however, he was already at the counter.

Hawke wasn't one for that bullshit chivalry, and she told him so when he returned to the table, purchases in hand.

"If I can easily afford to replace a five-thousand-dollar suit," the Arishok reminded her, "coffee is of no consequence."

"Fine," she conceded. "Then you won't mind if I steal some of yours." As she plucked his cup from his hand, she lifted it to her lips. "What'd you get?"

"Tea."

The first sip sent her sputtering. "This isn't tea!"

"Chai is an Indian tea."

"No, I know that, but there's so much sugar and milk and vanilla in this–" She raised an eyebrow. "You're basically drinking hot melted ice cream. And eating..." She cocked her head, staring as he freed a piece of beautifully-decorated perfection from its wax wrapping. "A double-chocolate butterscotch fudge brownie rolled in chocolate chips."

He frowned, the expression making his severe face fearsome as he waited for her to replace his cup. "I was not aware you made a habit of policing food on dates."

"I'm not policing!" She leaned her elbows on the table, hiding her grin behind the rim of her coffee mug. "Having a sweet tooth is so out of character for you. I mean, I assumed..." With a snicker, she bit her lower lip. "It's adorable."

"Assume nothing," he growled, "and banish that word from your vocabulary."

She smirked. "Roger that."

And they stayed in that little hipster coffee shop until well after the rain had passed.


	12. Fish abominations

**Prompt:** "Arishok has to be admitted to the hospital for whatever reason. Hawke visits."

* * *

"When I came to pick you up from the airport, I wasn't expecting it to be in an ambulance."

The Arishok sat up in the sterile white hospital bed, looking irritated at the very memory of the spectacle. "It was unnecessary," he said flatly, "and a waste of resources."

Hawke raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she plonked down beside his legs on the stiff mattress. "The EMTs said that it was a possible poisoning scare. And for dignitaries, that's serious business. You can't blame the government for wanting to protect their asses."

He grunted something resembling acknowledgement, and she reached out with one foot to hook her toes under the handle of the daybag she'd packed for him, dragging it to within arm's reach.

"Well," she said brightly as she opened it, "they're keeping you here overnight anyway. And you're in a private room with a view. So play nice and they'll let you out on time."

As he opened his mouth to say something she was sure wouldn't be pleasant, she tossed a shirt directly into his face. "And put some clothes on."

He had been mostly nude since being admitted; he'd refused the medical gown outright and instead elected to wait for Hawke to fetch him something decent. His attending physician had protested – but several of the nurses had very enthusiastically defended his decision. The straight female ones, anyway.

As he pulled the cashmere over his head, Hawke appreciated the way the planes of his stomach shifted with the effort. "So what was it that set your stomach off," she asked, "airline food?"

"I do not eat anything served on commercial flights," he replied, ignoring the resulting snicker. "Yet the way Scandinavian countries prepare fish is an abomination."

Hawke winced in sympathy, having spent a month documenting Swedish nobel laureates. "And the Nordics got to choose the conference farewell dinner this time?"

The Arishok growled something unintelligible. "There are some things," he declared slowly, "that are not meant to be eaten."

Hawke crawled up his body and nudged his knees apart, feeling him shift to accommodate her as she laid her back against his chest and grabbed the TV remote. It was immediately plucked from her hand, however, and she glared at him over her shoulder.

"Hey," she protested, "I crossed the damn city and back on a Friday night to bring you clothes. I get the remote first."

"You have not yet remarked on my return," he informed her, holding the remote out of reach. "Nor expressed any sentiment at our reunion."

With a laugh, she turned just enough to plant a kiss across his mouth and briefly touch her forehead to his. "Yes, welcome back and I missed you terribly."

Unsatisfied, he caught her with his free hand and brought her back in for a longer, much more involved kiss. She smiled against him, humming her approval at the familiar warmth and touch.

As soon as he released her, though, the remote was quickly stolen back and she settled on the bed in front of him once more, blanketed thighs on either side of her hips.

"Now recover from food poisoning in quiet," she said over the _blip_ of the flatscreen as his arms slid around her waist. "Top Gear is on."


	13. Teach me to play?

**maybethings asked:** Arishawke, 10

"Teach me how to play?"

(More modern AU because yes.)

* * *

 Hawke twisted the cap off of her beer and joined Arishok on the sofa, more than ready for the weekend to start.

"The week we've both had," she groaned as she sank into the plush upholstery, shoving a few throw pillows aside. "Do we have any set plans tomorrow or Sunday?"

He didn't look up from his tablet. "Saturday evening is the beginning-of-summer event at The Deep Roads," he reminded. "You made an explicit promise to attend."

Hawke sighed, pulling her legs beneath her and taking a long swig. "The annual foam party. How could I forget? Seeing that club overrun with bubbles, watching Anders make out with at least five different college students in the span of an hour, and losing my watch every damn year..." She let her head fall back against the cushions. "Maybe we could just pop in for an hour, make an appearance and get out."

" 'We' will be doing nothing of the kind," he said flatly. "You accepted the invitation; I made no such commitment."

"You just like seeing me suffer." At his noncommittal rumble, she leaned over to peer at his screen. "What are you up to? You've been glued to that thing for an hour."

" _Ashanaan_ ," he replied, and her interest was piqued. He didn't speak much of his own tongue in the apartment, and so any use of it caught her attention.

"A book?" When a series of icons on a diamond grid came into view, she snorted in disbelief. "Wait, a  _game_?"

"It is a test of strategy and risk," he said. "Today, a colleague alerted me to the presence of this application and the growing league of players."

"You play?"

"I was taught as a child," he said, dragging a hook-shaped piece two spaces over and releasing it, a chime sounding as it locked into place. "As were most of the well-educated from my homeland."

"So it's like chess." After a moment, the symbols at the top of the screen triggered recognition, and she leaned over his shoulder. "Wait, I've seen that writing before – on a box, in the hall closet. Do you have a physical set?"

"Yes. A gift from a visiting dignitary."

She grinned, standing and taking her beer with her. "Teach me to play?"

He raised an eyebrow, but locked his screen.

Five minutes later, they sat on opposite sides of the polished kitchen countertops, the diamond grid set up with twenty pieces of each color in various shapes and sizes.

"These," Arishok informed her, "are the Ashaad, the scouts. They are fast-moving, but relatively weak." He moved on to the next, emblazoned with a nautical compass. "This is the Kaaras, the navigator. Its movements dictate the possible directions of those immediately surrounding."

Hawke took another sip of her beer, reaching for the piece wielding an axe. "And you said that the Katari are the only ones who can take out high-level opponent pieces? Like Kithshok and Sten."

"Yes," he confirmed. "Within a certain range."

"Right." She scanned the board, pushing two figures together with her fingers, the silver chain between them chiming brightly. "And Basvaraad and Saarebas always have to be within a square of each other, otherwise you forfeit the latter."

"Correct."

Cracking her knuckles, Hawke straightened and plonked all of her pieces back into place. "All right," she declared. "I think I've got it. Now to see what they can do together."

The Arishok's mouth twitched into a smirk, amusement clearly written on his severe face as he regarded her from across the board. "You require no further instruction, then."

"I know the win conditions," she said, "and the abilities of each soldier. I prefer  _doing_  rather than listening, anyway."

"I am aware."

Ignoring him, she drummed her fingers on the countertop. "And I'm a quick learner. You might have to keep an eye on me, you know."

He snorted. "As you say."

"So little faith!" Smirking, Hawke lifted her chin and looked him dead in the eye. "Tell you what: if I can beat you before 9pm tomorrow, you make an appearance with me at that party."

He crossed his arms, staring at her intently for a long moment before flicking his gaze to the board and back again.

"Take  _one_ of my Salasari triumvirate," he rumbled slowly, "and I will allow you one hour of my time."

"Deal," Hawke agreed. "Now, age before beauty – you go first."

At 8:49pm the following day, with almost no sleep and after commandeering his tablet for practice, she finally managed to take his Ariqun.

Triumphant, she dragged him to the club – only to pass out from exhaustion thirty minutes in and be brought home in a taxi.


	14. Five Kiss Meme

**anonymous asked:**  Five kiss meme, F!Hawke x Arishok

More modern AU because why not, I love that shit

* * *

**One:**

"...and then that's when I grabbed the shot, goat's ass in frame and all. And of  _course_  that's the one my editor chooses to run, right on the damn cover." Hawke snickered into her glass. "I get the feeling I won't be invited to the royal palace again anytime soon."

The skyline was a beautiful, glittering sprawl over the roof's edge. She still wasn't sure where they were, exactly – he'd taken her in his private car somewhere outside of Manhattan, but past that, she hadn't so much as seen a street sign. Even the restaurant they were at was a mystery, but from the way the waitstaff dressed and the constant  _clink_  of expensive crystal, she was positive it had at least one Michelin star.

Her companion held out his wineglass to be refilled, a waiter immediately appearing at his elbow.

"Your travels through Asia have been extensive," he said. "An uncommon route for the media."

"I'm not media," she corrected, "I'm freelance. I go wherever I can get into the most trouble, it seems. And I get results."

"I am familiar with your work."

She smiled, leaning on her elbows and turning to take a good, long look at him. She'd moved her chair to be beside rather than opposite him after their meals were cleared. His snow-white hair and dark skin were striking, as was his build; she'd never met someone so physically imposing, though that could also have been from his demeanor. Or from the sticker shock of just  _looking_  at what he wore – Hawke didn't follow designers, but she knew Valentino when she saw it. He was still dressed from the museum opening, as was she, though her party dress was borrowed from Isabela's extensive wardrobe and was more than likely stolen. Still, she wasn't going to turn down silk.

"Arishok," she asked him, point-blank. "Why  _exactly_ did you kidnap me?"

His eyes, a shade of frightening gold the likes of which she'd never seen before, studied her face a moment before he spoke, hands folded over crossed legs. "I had fulfilled my appearance obligations. Staying longer would be purely for social or commercial reasons, neither of which I found interesting. I also had not yet eaten."

"You could have left alone."

"I could have," he agreed. "But you are attractive, accomplished, and fearless, all qualities I would be a fool not to pursue."

She raised an eyebrow, smirking as she granted him a pass on the 'attractive' bit. "You got all that from one ten-minute conversation?"

"I was not wrong. And my interest was reciprocated."

She laughed, then, shaking her head in disbelief. "You're a piece of work, you know that?" Playfully, she reached to pluck at his collar. "It's refreshing. I like it."

Then her fingers took firm hold of that absurdly expensive fabric and yanked him in for a kiss.

She felt him suck in a breath, and though he kept his hands respectfully in his lap, the intensity with which his mouth sought hers was telling. He might have had excellent self-control, but Hawke was well-practiced at tearing people's self-control apart at the seams.

She pulled back, clearing her throat politely as she stood and collected her camera and cardigan. He made no protest as she snapped a photo, but frowned at the flash.

"For my personal collection," she informed him as she turned, headed for the elevator. She didn't need to give him her number; she had a feeling he'd find it if he wanted it.

"Thanks for dinner."

**Two:**

He had only just turned off the kettle when he heard the soft chime of the door's intercom system.

A cursory glance at the microwave clock told him that it was well after midnight. The building in which he lived had tight security, supplemented by his personal staff, so any visitor would have been cleared twice over before even reaching the front desk. This, despite the late hour, left him more curious than wary.

Upon recognizing the face in the display, he unlocked the door and opened it, staring down at the irritated-looking photojournalist standing in his entryway.

"Hawke."

She was clearly agitated, but made no move to enter. Glaring up at him, she kept her arms crossed over her chest. "I told you this was a terrible idea."

'This,' of course, meaning the involvement he had been pursuing and she had been resisting. At every turn, she presented him with an excuse, a way to rationalize the distance at which she kept him despite their acknowledged mutual attraction.

"There are so many possible landmines," she continued, "so many things that could go wr -" She stopped as her gaze caught on the embroidery across the hem of his sleeve. "Christ, even your  _schlub_  clothes are designer?" Exasperated, she dragged her palms down the length of her face. "See, I don't even know what to  _do_  with that."

She then proceeded to list every reason she could think of that this would be foolish for the both of them, at length and in great detail - but she wasn't moving.

He leaned against the door frame, waiting. Watching her struggle. Observing that the camera had naturally joined her on the journey across the city to wring her hands on his doorstep.

"...and this is all moot and I'm just getting it out of my system, because as of an hour ago I've made the conscious decision to be stupid anyway." She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck, but when she reclaimed eye contact, it was with a determination and heat he hadn't seen directed at him before.

"So just let me in and fuck me already."

He came up off the door frame slowly, stepping back over the threshold to allow her access. Small talk would have been unnecessary, and there was no chance for it. The moment the door was shut and locked behind her, she was pressed up against it and lifted clear off her feet, one cashmere-clad arm around her backside and the other braced against the faux wood surface to keep his bulk from crushing into her. Her hands frantically explored the planes of his stomach and throat, tongue delving into his mouth as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

"Bed," she issued, " _now."_

He obliged without putting her down, and as her mouth found his neck, he decided not to tell her about the building's security cameras.

**Three:**

A flash in Arishok's peripheral vision was enough to catch his attention as they exited the gallery.

His security team had swept the building and the surrounding area, and this particular event showcasing the modeling work of one of Hawke's colleagues hadn't been opened to the public. The venue was also far enough away from the tourist strip that drunken vacationers wouldn't be stumbling around and snapping souvenir photos, yet a quick sweep of the darkness beside the gravel path turned up nothing.

He dismissed it as Hawke joined him, shivering at the first brush of the night air. "Sebastian should be  _ecstatic,_ " she said as she checked her phone. "I mean, he was hesitant about doing nudes at first, but looking at this woman's artwork makes me want to learn to paint. And after this article comes out, she'll be the new indie scene darling." With a smile, she laid a hand on his arm and gave it a warm squeeze. "Thanks for coming out tonight. I had fun." She stood on her toes to kiss him, and he graciously leaned to accommodate her.

"Art is an integral part of any civilized culture," he rumbled, and as she lifted her phone to show him something, another flash went off from behind a hedge to their left. Then another, and another. He frowned, pausing over the icon on Hawke's screen that summoned his personal guard and narrowing his eyes in an attempt to pinpoint the offender's exact location.

"Paparazzi?" Hawke asked, unfazed. "Waiting for Sebastian, I suppose."

"No." Arishok heard a shuffling noise, listening as their peeping tom knew himself found out and fled. He had gotten the shot he wanted – of  _them_.

At his expression, Hawke inclined her head. "I have contacts with all the big tabloids. I can make a few calls and get that taken care of, if you want."

"Your offer is appreciated, but unnecessary." They began walking toward the curb where their car sat waiting, keys in the driver's hands. "Our affiliation would have been discovered eventually – this is innocuous and an acceptable situation for that purpose."

" 'Affiliation?' " Hawke smirked as she slipped into the backseat. "How about 'dating?' Or is that too American for you?"

He sat beside her and shut the door, sinking into the leather seat. "'Dating' implies a lack of sincerity. I am fully committed, as I assume you are."

Surprise clearly took hold of her expression, but quickly gentled into something pleased.

"Yeah," she said, intertwining her fingers with his. "I'm all in."

A few days later, Arishok discovered Hawke's handiwork hanging on his wall: a framed copy of the centerfold from the magazine spread of their kiss.

He removed it, but it was back the next evening.

**Four:**

Hawke watched from the bar as Arishok sat on the red leather sofas of the VIP platform, Merrill chattering excitedly at him. It took everything she had not to laugh as the skinny little grad student pinned him down with a rapid-fire storm of questions about his homeland. He was gracious about it, at least, probably from years of practice being the representative of his people, though probably never in the face of so much enthusiasm in such a small frame.

"You should go rescue him, kitten," Isabela smirked as she slid over the drinks from behind the bar. "Poor man got  _ambushed._ "

"It's Merrill's birthday," Hawke countered, "and he's got Fenris there to back him up, if need be."

The Deep Roads was where Merrill had insisted she wanted her party, and Varric's private lounge had been decked out in pink and mint green streamers, balloons strung from every surface. The unicorn-themed "Happy Birthday" banner had been Aveline's contribution, leftover from celebrating Marigold's fourth the month before. Though the way Merrill's eyes lit up at the sight of it, Hawke would've sworn it was meant for her. Most of her friends were already dancing, though Hawke had to be a fair bit drunker before that was going to happen.

When Arishok pointedly met her eyes from across the room, Hawke snickered and gave in, taking both drinks with her as she made a quick stop at the DJ booth before crossing the dance floor.

"Get anything good out of him," she half-asked as she handed Arishok his wine and sat beside him.

Nodding, Merrill sipped at her sugary cocktail through a crazy straw. "He's been helpful and lovely," she said, "unlike a certain grumpy someone who won't even talk about the place, no matter how much I ask."

Fenris snorted from across the table. "I am not a research subject for your thesis papers," he said flatly. "Nor did I appreciate being browbeaten into revealing details of my past at every outing."

"Not  _every_  outing," the grad student began to protest, but as the music changed into something familiar, her frown reversed entirely. "Oh, I love this song!" Drink abandoned, she made a dash for the dance floor...

...and a collective sigh of relief fell over the VIP platform.

"Your doing?" Fenris asked, reaching for his wineglass.

"Yeah. I mean, I love her to death, but sometimes she can get..." She twisted the cap off of her beer. "Anyway, the next three songs are off of her 'perky' iTunes playlist, so I think we're safe for a while."

Fenris chuckled, and Hawke turned to Arishok.

"Thanks for coming out," she said, almost apologetically. "And for humoring Merrill."

He took a long, slow sip of wine – a sign she'd learned meant irritation. "Aside from her... intensity, she was respectful and asked questions that demonstrated genuine interest."

"Her dissertation is on nomadic cultures. Probably the best birthday gift she'll talk about for years."

A noise rumbled in his throat, and he tapped one polished fingernail on the couch's wooden back runner thoughtfully.

"Her university has requested a speaking engagement," he said. "I will consider it."

Smiling, Hawke stretched up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Big softie."

 **Five:**  
  
"Arishok!"

Hawke threw her things down on the end table as she pushed her way into the apartment, past uniformed cops and private security. Adrenaline coursed through her system, having made it from the library to the apartment in ten minutes flat on a Friday night – starting the instant she received that text message.

Nearly a dozen pairs of eyes were on her as she ran to the sofa where Arishok sat, thick bandage around his upper arm and sheaf of paperwork on the table in front of him, which she pushed aside in order to better get a look at him from her position kneeling on the floor.

"I got the text and on the way back the attack was all over the internet," her hands ran over his arms, face, gentle yet shaking in their panic, "and I was flipping out, are you all right?"

Arishok shot a glare at Sten, one of his guards. Sten had established a good rapport with his boss' lover, and as such had been made the unofficial Hawke Liason, responsible for communicating anything from security risks to scheduling changes. And though he had  _clearly_  been the one responsible, he showed no remorse as he spoke to one of the officers.

Hawke tapped Arishok's thigh, redirecting his attention back to her. "Hey. Don't get mad at him, tell me what happened."

"I left the charity gala with the Greek ambassador," he informed her, "and from the crowd of journalists, a man jumped over the line with a pistol and improvised explosives."

At the look on her face, one of the NYPD officers rushed in to clarify. "It was a homemade smoke bomb," he explained. "Aside from a few red eyes, no real damage done. And no one was seriously hurt – your friend here was only grazed in the scuffle." With a smile, he thumbed toward Team Armani. "His boys know their stuff."

Hawke smiled up at him, grateful for the familiar face. "Thanks, Donnic. Where's Aveline?"

"Back at the precinct," he sighed. "Feds are on their way, if they're not there already. Long night for everyone tonight." He stooped down to pick up the paperwork Arishok had left abandoned. "We've got the suspect in lockup, but he's not talking. Any ideas as to a group or organization that would do this? We can book him on concealed carry, but..."

"There are at least ten with known ties in your city," the Arishok replied. "My staff will comply fully. Direct your questions to them; I am otherwise occupied."

Hawke didn't miss the chuckle from Donnic as Arishok used his uninjured arm to pull her into his lap. "Hey," she protested, "your arm, jackass!"

He frowned, hand still firmly on her backside as she straddled his thighs. "I am bleeding and you would deny me comfort."

"Deny y-!" Sighing, she pinched his nose lightly. "Fine. But humor me, all right?"

She leaned in to kiss him, feeling his arms slide up her back as she leaned into his chest. "And tell Sten," she murmured as she pulled back briefly, "to let me know you're not dead next time he texts me about an emergency."

Donnic shook his head, turning to give the pair some privacy as he filled out the report. "Incredible," he said as he addressed security. "Are they always like that?"

"Yes," came Sten's immediate answer, and the one next to him agreed.

"Constantly."


	15. Thought You Were Dead

**kayla-bird asked:**  Arishawke, 29! "I thought you were dead."

(I love this modern au please put up with it sorry ;_;)

* * *

 Sunlight bit at the edges of Hawke's eyelids.

God _damn_ , every muscle in her body ached and her mouth tasted like ripe ass. She struggled, genuinely  _struggled_  to open her eyes, and when she finally managed it, the exhaustion of that one simple act was nearly enough to numb the feeling of waking to completely unfamiliar surroundings.

Her heart pounded in her chest from the effort and her conscious attempt not to panic. White walls, charts, daytime TV quietly playing from a screen mounted on the opposite wall – she was in a hospital. Her arm itched, and she inclined her head enough to see an IV settled into the skin. Squinting, she clumsily reached for the bar it hung from and managed to turn it enough to read.

When she made out the words, she leaned back, somewhat reassured. Just saline – she wasn't in serious trouble. Just starving and stiff and  _very_  confused.

She mashed a few fingers against the nurse call button, and moments later, a thin woman in mint scrubs appeared at her curtain.

"Hey," Hawke croaked. "How's it going?"

"You're awake," the nurse replied with a tired smile, crossing over to pull out the chart at the foot of her bed. "You're one of the lucky ones."

Meaning that so many others had died, Hawke realized with a hard swallow.

"Do you remember anything," the nurse prodded, "like where you were or what happened?"

"I remember being on the train," Hawke coughed, vision spinning. "I was checking my schedule, and then there was a screech - " Her blood ran cold. "The train. It derailed."

"You were pretty banged up," the nurse informed her gently. "And probably had a hell of a concussion. Do you think you can eat something?"

"I – yes, maybe. What day is it?"

"Thursday. The 27th."

Three days. She glanced at the side table, the bag she'd been brought in with looking scuffed but intact. Her phone was undoubtedly dead, though.

"This is going to sound weird, and I promise it isn't," she sighed, "but I think I need you to call a consulate for me."  
  
\----

A clamor from the nurses' station the next hall over pulled Hawke's attention away from The Price is Right just at the final showcase.

"Sir," one of the nurses argued, "you can't just - "

"I," a familiar voice growled, "have just wasted four hours on that decrepit piece of infrastructure your people call a highway."

"And I'm on hour eight of a ten-hour shift," she snapped back. "And you're going to sign in  _just like everyone else_."

There were some muttered curses accompanying the scratching of paper and the clatter of a clipboard, and Hawke smiled despite herself as hurried, heavy footfalls approached her curtains.

When Arishok's face finally came into view, her chest tightened. His obscenely expensive Valentino was wrinkled, tie half-loose around his neck, and lines of exhaustion seeped into his haggard face.

"Wow," Hawke called weakly. "You look like hell."

The gold of his eyes focused on her so intensely that she wasn't sure he could see anything else. Something – tension, fear, anxiety – left his shoulders, almost visibly draining from him as he crossed over to her in long strides. He was beside her in an instant, sitting to face her on the side of the bed. His arms reached for her, and she grimaced.

"Watch the ribs," she warned. "Two of them are broken. The rest could use a hug, though."

There was a hesitation in his hands as he shifted, instead gently wrapping one arm about her shoulders and guiding her in against his chest. Hawke closed her eyes, leaning into him and inhaling deeply. The smell of him, warm and familiar, overpowered the hospital's ever-present cloud of disinfectant. Though she could smell it at all was a sign that he'd been forgoing his usual cologne or aftershave, and she could feel the scratch of white-grey stubble on her forehead as it pressed against his cheek.

His pulse was thunderous, his breathing ragged.

"My men were combing the local hospitals," he rumbled. "The emergency services were overwhelmed and could not record the number of hospitals to which they had routed the overflow of casualties."

"So you had no way to find me."

"No. You were counted among the missing." His arms tightened. "And feared among the dead."

Hawke swallowed hard, holding him as tight as she could manage through the pain. For her, it felt as though she'd only seen him hours ago. For him, it had been living through days of not knowing whether she even lived.

"The powerlessness was maddening."

"Hey," she reassured him, "I'm here. I'm alive."

"Yes," he breathed, low and long. "You are."

They spent another moment like that, drinking in one another's presence before he pulled back, eyes traveling the length of her seated form.

"You were unconscious," he said. "What is the extent of your injuries?"

"Two broken ribs. Cracked collarbone." Hawke gestured with each item ticked off. "Severe concussion, quarter pound of broken glass in my left arm, sprained goddamn  _everything_. But the nurses say that I was lucky."

He rumbled an agreement, and she bit the tip of her tongue, hesitating to ask what she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to. After folding her hands in her lap, the words found voice.

"How many dead?"

He set his jaw, but answered. "Thirty-two, including the motorists responsible. Ten passengers are yet unaccounted for."

" _Jesus_." She shook her head, staring down at her fingers. "And you? How are you doing?"

He removed his jacket, draping it over the chair at her bedside. "I have eaten," he informed her, "slept, and performed my obligations."

She knew him well enough to know what he wasn't saying. "Sten brought you takeout every day, didn't he?"

"The apartment became a base of operations for your companions," he said gruffly. "At least one was present at all hours. They rotated the choice of restaurant through their vigil."

Hawke smiled. "They made sure you ate."

"Whether such greasy filth qualifies as food remains to be seen."

That got him a chuckle out of her, painful as it was, and something in him changed at the sound. His hands settled on either side of her jawline and he drew her in, nudging his forehead against hers.

"You are alive," he said. "That is enough."

Hawke pressed a dry kiss to his mouth, murmuring an apology for the taste.

"Sorry," she said. "They won't let me get up to brush my teeth yet."

Arishok frowned, surveying their surroundings. "I will arrange for your transfer to the metropolitan hospital. You will recover more efficiently in private."

 _And closer to home_ , Hawke understood, but said nothing.

"Pump the brakes," came the nurse's voice as she came around the corner tray in hand. "She's not going anywhere until she proves that she can keep solid food down. Doctor's orders." She set it down on the side table, picking up water and a cup of pills and handing them to Hawke, who took them obligingly. "And  _you_ ," she said pointedly toward Arishok. "I saw that little display when you came in. And I don't care who you are, you get the standard two hours of visiting before I kick you out."

Hawke snickered, popping the contents of the cup onto her tongue. "Jenny, I love you."

The nurse smiled, patting her hand.

"That's the oxy talking, sweetie."


	16. Planning an Addition

**maybethings asked: modern!Hawkeishok, 18**

"18. Trying to get pregnant" from [this meme](http://tinyfierce.tumblr.com/post/128018270486/cuddle-up-a-little-closer-a-domesticityintimacy).

* * *

 

"...and this application is installed on your tablet. You input information daily, and it tracks your cycle to predict the most optimal day for conception."

Hawke stared down at the re-usable shopping bag Arishok had deposited on their countertop, collapsing exponentially the more its contents were emptied onto the white laminate.

"Wow," she managed, "you went all-out."

As he continued to lay out his purchases neatly, a small rectangular box caught Hawke's eye, and she lifted it for inspection. "A thermometer?"

"For monitoring your menstrual cycle," he replied. "A reading is required at the same time every morning to record fluctuations normally associated with ovulation."

She smirked, crossing her arms. "And where, exactly, am I supposed to  _take_  said temperature?"

"Orally is acceptable, though vaginally is considered more accurate."

"Of course." Snickering, Hawke put it back and took in the sight of more than a dozen products in a tidy row. "Where the hell did you even hear about all of this stuff?"

"I sought medical consult." He opened the drawer to his left and produced a pair of scissors with which to attack the packaging. "We conferenced this morning, and my staff called various businesses to locate the recommended products."

"A personal consult with no appointment? You must've paid through the nose."

"On the contrary." He snipped a ring of plastic from the lid of a large green-and-white jar with a Whole Foods logo on its side. "The fee was nominal – she cited a 'family discount' and seemed pleased to be of assistance."

Hawke paled. "Bethany. You talked about my vagina and our sex life with  _my sister._ "

"Extensively."

"Oh, god." Dragging her palms down her face, Hawke turned to the pile of what her sister had come up with from what was undoubtedly going to be a great excuse to be nosy. "So what else did my wise and benevolent sister sell you on?"

As she poked through and he explained, his veritable treasure trove of pregnancy products was impressive. Supplements, to be taken daily. Shea butter moisturizer – organic and cruelty-free, of course – to help with skin elasticity. Fertility herbal tea with ginger and licorice root to help regulate hormonal balance.

She held up an enormous spiked pineapple. "And this? What's this for?"

He stared at it for a moment, apparently checking his mental list. "Pineapple has been shown to promote implantation," he said, "on days where intercourse might lead to pregnancy."

"Holy  _shit_ ," she murmured, laughing a bit in disbelief as she lowered the yellow-and-green monstrosity. "You're really serious about this."

He frowned. "You doubt my sincerity."

"No, not at all!" Hawke raised her palms in mock surrender. "I was just surprised, is all. Though when you told me you wanted to get started with this, I should have known you would attack it with everything you've got." She smiled. "Which is something I like about you."

He rumbled an assent, not wholly convinced, and that smile stayed on Hawke's face as she moved to put the pineapple back in the bag. As it hit countertop, however, the crinkling sound of plastic indicated that there was something else still wrapped and sitting at the bottom. Intrigued, Hawke pulled it out, recognizing the logo of a bookstore on the white plastic sleeve encasing what felt like a lumpy hardcover. "What's this?"

It was immediately plucked out of her hands and tucked out of sight. "Nothing."

He had apparently learned nothing about her from their courtship.

"Arishok," she began, staring him down, "you just put it into the  _dishwasher_  to hide it from me. Whatever it is, hand it over."

"It is unimportant."

"Give it."

"No."

From the look on his face, he hadn't expected her to fully  _leap_  over the countertop, bracing herself with one hand to clear it with relative ease. Taking advantage of the rare moment of surprise, Hawke yanked open the dishwasher door and pulled her prize free, grinning. As she circled the island, Arishok in pursuit at her heels, she freed the book from its wrapping and threw it behind her. As he muttered and pulled the plastic from his face, Hawke finally got a good look at the cover.

It was cardboard stock, a children's book entitled "What is This?" illustrated in bright pastels. She slowed to a stop beside the refrigerator, cracking the book open. Each thick page had a circle cut into it, filled with different textures – scales, feathers, fluffy fur, tree bark – and notes for parents on how to engage the child to whom they were reading. It seemed explicitly designed for first-time parents, and was so out of character for her lover that Hawke didn't know what to make of it, instead turning to look at him.

He had stopped chasing her, instead leaning against the counter and waiting in silence as she indulged her curiosity. The expression on his face wasn't one of embarrassment, nor discomfort, though he seemed to have some difficulty meeting her eyes.

"It was on display," he said slowly, staring intently at the microwave. "Next to where I had a lunch appointment. I thought it... prudent."

"Before I'm even pregnant," Hawke prodded, amusement tinging her voice. When no answer came, she pressed a kiss to his mouth and handed the book over. "Keep it out on the coffee table or something," she said. "It's a good reminder of what we're working toward."

_And if he's going to get serious about this..._

She jogged over to the sofa where her bag lay, rummaging around until she found her tablet. Device in hand, she sat on one of the barstools under the edge of the now-cluttered countertop.

"Drafting a message to your sister," Arishok assumed as he crossed over, and Hawke waved it at him as her new app loaded.

"Nope," she said, indicating the display screen of the ovulation calendar. "My period ends tomorrow. Let's do this."

She began entering information in the required setup fields, and Arishok was quiet when he finally circled behind to observe. A warmth flooded her busy fingertips as one of his hands settled around her waist, and she bit back a smile.

"When recording your daily temperature," he helpfully reminded, "they also have a field for mucous and vaginal discharge."

Hawke sighed.


	17. Sweat

**swarmagent asked:**  Arrowhead timeline Arishawke please. It always gives me the the feels ^-^.

[Ah, I somehow read this and mis-parsed "arrowhead" as "au!" Damn. Only realizing it just now. ;_; ]

29\. sweat

* * *

"You are nervous."

Hawke glared at him from her position by the window, leather seat squeaking in protest as she shifted. "I'm not nervous. I'm  _anxious._  There's a difference."

Arishok lifted his chin, indicating the junction of their hands on the seat between them. "Your palms are sweating and you are unable to stop tapping your foot. I am merely reading the physical signals."

She sighed, leaning back and adjusting her tits within their lace-and-wire confines. She shouldn't have worn a new bra tonight. The last thing she needed was to feel  _more_  uncomfortable, even if this particular dress did require a full set of new undergarments to fit correctly.

"I still can't believe you talked me into this," she groused. "We got separate invitations."

"Arriving together ensures an appropriate level of punctuality," he replied. "Also, sharing a car from the same departure point is both economical and time-efficient."

"And the fact that we're showing up  _together?_ "

He turned to fix his gaze on her properly, hawk-gold eyes narrowing slightly as lights from the overpass flashed through the tinted windows. "You insist that you are not ashamed of our relationship, yet you would take pains to hide it."

"I'm a  _private_  person," she countered. "I'm crazy about you, and sometimes I just sit and think so hard about how fucking  _lucky_  I am that I can't think straight. But a lot of the jobs I take are for the press, and I know how these things work."

Arishok seemed to accept that, though a low noise rumbled in his throat.

"I chose you, knowing what such a relationship would entail," he said. "I am prepared."

They sat in silence for a while longer, their hands still intertwined along the backseat of the car while their chauffeur navigated the Friday evening city congestion.

"I guess a charity event is as good a place as any to get off on the right foot with the media," Hawke said finally, still staring out the window as they pulled up to the venue. "I'll just… try not to punch anyone tonight."

A smirk lifted the corners of Arishok's mouth as he pulled on his gloves.

"Appreciated."


	18. Alone, Finally

**artfulusername asked:**  20. Arishawke modern AU

20\. Alone, Finally

* * *

 Hawke's fingers itched as they punched in the door code, tingling relentlessly as she waited the interminable one-and-a-half seconds it took for the electronics to unlock. As soon as she was inside, she threw her bag on the counter and nigh-leapt onto the sofa next to the penthouse's other occupant.

"Arishok," she breathed, reaching for him. "You would not believe the day I've had, and I'll tell you all about it later, but right now I just need you to  _fuck me_  like my life depended on it."

He didn't resist, but stayed facing the coffee table as she began sliding her hands around his waist and under his shirt, tugging it free of his belt insistently.

"Hawke," he said flatly, "may I introduce Josephine Montilyet, Consul General of Italy."

Hawke froze in horror, then slowly turned to the open Skype screen she had overlooked in her haste. Staring back at her was a woman with bound-up chestnut brown hair, a prominent nose, and warm smile a mile wide.

"Consul," she greeted weakly.

"Miss Hawke, I presume." The diplomat's rich accent clearly spelled out her entertainment at the situation. "I'm familiar with your work, and Arishok speaks quite highly of you."

"I'm glad?"

With a chuckle, Montilyet turned to Arishok and lifted her chin. "It seems you have more… pressing matters to attend to. No matter – we will have the meeting tomorrow with the rest of the committee to finish the minor details."

As both issued farewells and the screen went black with a  _blip_ , Hawke groaned and sank into the cushions. "Oh my god, I am  _so_  sorry– "

"Our business had concluded," Arishok said. "We had moved onto final pleasantries. You were no inconvenience."

Mortified, Hawke stared at him from behind her fingers as she dragged her palms down her face. "I announced to a videoconference that I wanted you to fuck me like my life depended on it."

"Yes," he agreed, arms wrapping around her to pull her onto his lap, "you did."

And just like that, the furious hunger that had been plaguing her was back. His hands found her skin, teeth and tongue at her throat, and she arched into his touch with a gasp. Oh, she needed this right now. Fast and hard and -

Upon second thought, she quickly reached behind them both to shut the laptop, and a chuckle rumbled in Arishok's chest.


End file.
